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Ian De Leon is shorter than I thought he’d be.

I’ve only seen him in photographs from before he made all his money, or in the official-looking headshots they use in the news.

Not a single paparazzi shot of him exists, and he doesn’t do interviews.

Not since the Eros model debuted. In fact, for years he’s said he would never appear in public or give an interview again.

Until now.

He’s older than his most recent photo by about a decade, putting him…

mid-forties, I’m guessing. His thick black hair is marked at the temples with streaks of silver.

His jaw is stubbled with five-o’clock shadow, which I suspect is by design.

His collared white shirt hangs open at the throat, revealing a thin gold chain and a hint of chest hair.

A pair of round, gold-framed glasses hang from his shirt pocket.

Everything about him is perfect, clean, curated — just like the penthouse.

Ian De Leon is much better looking in person. And even though I try to ignore it, my heart rate absolutely can’t. He is definitely going to be a problem.

Rain patters the floor-to-ceiling window behind me.

Ian watches me expectantly with dark brown eyes.

And as I move closer, pulse pounding, something in his gaze makes my gut tighten.

He looks like the men I used to serve at cocktail bars: polite at first, even respectful, but deep down I recognize a glint of hunger there.

He clears his throat.

I realize he’s waiting for my answer. I try to relax; I need to chill the fuck out if I’m going to spend the next three days with him. “Whiskey’s fine.”

He raises a dark eyebrow. “Straight?”

“Oh… uh, no.” I’m so off my game. Usually, I’m a pro at acting cool and casual, no matter what emotions are scrabbling for purchase underneath. “Sorry, I thought… because you had the bottle—”

He leans over the bar, forearms resting on the countertop. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing a gold bracelet partially obscured by thick dark hair. “Tell me what you’d order from the bar,” he says with a half-smile. His mannerisms are disarming, intimate, and a little too sexy.

I almost blurt out my actual order — a shot of tequila — like I’m sixteen with a fake ID.

But Ian De Leon doesn’t need to know how cheap a date I really am, how easy it is to get me into…

well . In any other circumstance, I’d fall into his bed stone-cold sober.

But in this case, I’m trying to be a professional career woman; a person who drinks fancy cocktails.

And I’m ashamed to realize I have no idea what drink I should want.

What cocktails do women in their twenties with generational wealth order at the bar?

I go with the safest route. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

He smiles. “One Sazerac, coming right up.”

Whatever that is. “Perfect.”

He rummages around the bar, pulling out ingredients. “Katherine. Is that your preferred name?”

His voice curls around my name like thick smoke. I lick my lips. “Kit. If you’d rather use a nickname, my friends call me Kit.”

He returns to the bar with another bottle of liquor — something green — and a few other things. “Kit,” he says thoughtfully, pouring the green liquid into a glass and swirling it. “Call me Ian.”

“Okay. Ian.”

“I’m excited to have you here, Kit,” he says, muddling sugar and what I think is bitters in another glass. “I have so much to show you. We have so much to talk about.”

No fucking kidding. I bite my lip to hold back what I really want to say, which is an uninterrupted string of words and questions about the Eros model, what it means, how it could change our culture as a whole, the philosophical implications, the religious implications…

but we have three whole days for that. And I’m determined to play it cool, even though I’ve failed at it so far.

I don’t want him to think I’m a stalker, never mind that he invited me here.

“Yeah, I’m excited, too,” I say. Understatement of the millennium. And then, because I just can’t help myself, “What you’re doing with the robotics field is honestly mind-blowing. No one’s ever—”

He holds up a finger, shaking his head. “Please, no flattery. You’re not here as a sycophant.

I’ve got plenty of those. Plenty. We’re intellectuals, Kit.

You and I. The world may not see it that way, but you have ideas .

That blog of yours — ah, that reminds me.

” He snaps a finger, holding out his hand, palm up. “Phone, please.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” I’ve been holding it in my sweaty hand this whole time. I wipe the phone surreptitiously on my skirt, and hand it over, his words circling giddily in my head: We’re intellectuals. You and I .

He grins, white teeth flashing, and drops the phone into his pants pocket. “Now, we’re free,” he says. “Nothing to distract, nothing to interfere.”

I’m not sure how to answer, so I just smile back.

I’m relieved when he finally finishes making our drinks and holds one out to me. I need to loosen up before he changes his mind about this whole thing and sends me packing.

“Tell me what you think,” Ian says, before sipping his own. He closes his eyes, adopting an expression of utter bliss. “Wow,” he murmurs. “Wow! Nothing better. Nothing better.”

I sip mine, hyper-aware of how heavy the glass is, how it must be crystal. The liquid slides easily down my throat, and I relish the warm burn. It has a strange licorice aftertaste, but it goes down smooth. “I like it, thank you.”

“Good,” he says. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m actually starving,” I admit. I’ve been too anxious to eat all day. But now that I’m here, sipping a Sazerac, the nerves are wearing off, and my appetite has come roaring back.

Ian grins. “You like steak?”

“Of course.”

He points at me. “Let me guess. Medium?”

“Rare, actually.”

He laughs. “Girl after my own heart. Two rare steaks, coming right up. We’ll talk while I cook.”

I follow Ian into the adjacent kitchen. I try to drink slowly, but every sip relaxes me. And I need to relax. I take a seat at a generous kitchen island with a black granite countertop and watch as Ian moves competently about the kitchen, pulling out ingredients.

“Do you cook often?” I ask.

“Hardly ever,” he says. “You like potatoes? Or salad?”

“I like both.”

He claps his hands together once. “Both! Good girl. So. The book. What’s your vision?”

“Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “I thought — I mean, I’m meant to be your ghostwriter, right? The vision should be yours. Do you need help with dinner?”

Ian, midway through chopping a head of garlic, pauses to shoot me a look over his shoulder. “I’m all good. I’m very particular about my food. And you’re not a ghostwriter. You’ll get full author credit. It’s a biography, not an autobiography. You read the contract, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say hurriedly, the words sinking in. Full author credit . “Sorry, I’m just…”

“Drink up,” Ian says. “You’re nervous. I get it. Weird building, weird guy living in it, weird everything. I get it. But we’re friends now. Is that okay with you? We’re not coworkers; I’m not your boss. We’re friends. So, tell me. What’s the vision?”

I take another long sip of my drink. The liquid warms me from my throat all the way down to my stomach.

“To be honest, I hadn’t thought about it that much.

I mean, I have , but I was hoping to meet the Eros model and learn more about it first. And more about you.

The standard would be, you know, early life, and then your career, and then—”

Ian turns to face me, waving a knife with dissatisfaction. “No, no. Early life? Boring. I want to get right into it. The book starts with Eros. He’s the one who matters. Everything before him is irrelevant. Totally irrelevant.”

I sip my drink. “Makes total sense.” Why did he ask me for my vision if he has one already? The smell of garlic and onion fills my nostrils, and the alcohol is finally loosening me up.

“The thing is, Kit, no one’s doing what I am.

Not in artificial intelligence, not in robotics, not in the sex industry.

I’m leagues above every other entrepreneur in the country, probably the world.

Right? But that’s… that’s not the book. You’re the book.

Your take on everything, on me, on Eros.

Your mind is something else. You’re like me.

You see things no one else does. You want mashed or boiled? ”

I stare. “I… what?”

“Potatoes.”

“Oh! Whatever you want is fine.”

He returns my stare. “Mashed or boiled? Either way, they’ll be drowning in garlic butter and herbs.”

“Boiled.”

“Boiled it is.” He claps once, digs around in a cupboard, and pulls out a bag of new potatoes.

By the time dinner is ready, I’ve finished my drink. I’m pleasantly buzzed, the alcohol working wonders on my empty stomach. Ian lays out our food on the kitchen island, pulling up a stool next to me.

“Dig in,” he says, then follows his own instruction.

As we eat, Ian makes no attempt at conversation.

He’s single-minded, maybe even distracted.

I get the impression he doesn’t host much, if at all.

The second he finishes eating, he hops off his stool and goes straight to the bar.

Still working on my steak, I can’t help but watch him as he goes, his broad shoulders, the way his dark grey slacks hug his figure.

And I notice for the first time that he’s barefoot.

“Another?” he calls back to me, holding up the whiskey.

I nod. “Yes, please.”

I finish my steak as he prepares our drinks, and I slide awkwardly off the stool. I begin stacking up our dishes to wash up, but Ian clicks his tongue, stopping me.

“No, no,” he says. “Don’t bother, I’ll do it. Later. Come on. Let’s sit.” He holds out a second drink.

“Thanks for dinner,” I say, taking the drink and letting Ian lead us into the living area.

“You’re welcome,” he says, flopping onto one of the architectural sofas. “Sit.” He holds out a hand to indicate the spot next to him. He settles in, folding one leg under the other.

I hesitate.

The rain outside is relentless, streaking the massive window in wavering luminous color. Beyond, the cityscape is ephemeral and coldly dark. But in here, the lights are warm. It smells of garlic and onion, and faintly of something musky — probably Ian’s cologne.

“I won’t bite,” he says. “Come on, Kit. We’re friends. Sit, sit.”

“My skirt is still a little damp,” I protest weakly. “Your sofa—”

“I don’t give a shit,” he says impatiently. He sips his drink, a gold signet pinky ring glinting in the lamplight. “Sit, please.”

I finally relent, perching at the edge of the sofa like a bird ready to take flight.

“So,” says Ian, the sharpness gone from his voice.

He’s even more attractive here, lit softly at the edges, only the palest hues of purple and red playing on his skin from neon ads outside.

His dark features are rugged but statuesque, refined but dangerous.

“Your blog. What’s the deal there? No one else likes it?

Why haven’t I seen you in Scientific American or something? ”

I blink, shocked briefly into silence.

“Well?”

“Um, the deal is I’m not a scientist,” I answer, feeling both flattered and incredibly embarrassed. “I’m sure you’ve seen that none of my pieces are peer-reviewed. I mean, I love what I write, I believe in it, but it’s frankly kind of insane. Like… science fiction shit.”

“Fuck that,” Ian says, waving a hand. “Peer-reviewed my ass. That’s the establishment. Society wants to keep us in a cage, Kit. My ideas were science fiction once, too. Do you see me in a goddamn cage?”

A little thrill rolls through me. “No.”

“Because I didn’t let them convince me I was crazy.

Because I’m not. I’m a fucking genius. And so are you, okay?

I’ve read your whole blog. It’s groundbreaking.

Really cool shit. And I want you to put it in the book.

Incorporate it. Eros, consciousness, multiverse theory, wormholes, lizardmen, whatever. All of it.”

“I never wrote about lizard—”

“I’m trying to make a point, Kit. This book won’t just change your life. It’ll make you famous. It’ll make you rich. And it’ll also change the world. All you need is a legitimate platform. I’m your platform.”

I down half my drink, skin tingling with anticipation and a sense of unreality. Ian De Leon read my entire blog. He took it seriously. He takes me seriously. I knew there was a reason he reached out to me to write his book. I knew it logically, but… it hadn’t quite hit home until now.

The realization alone is enough to make me feel drunk.

Or maybe it’s the two Sazeracs doing their work.

I inch closer to Ian, holding his gaze. “When do I get to see the Eros model?” The question comes out before I have a chance to stop myself.

I had been trying to be patient, to not act like some kind of weird groupie.

But Ian sees me as an intellectual equal, and I’m hungry to see Ian’s incredible invention.

“Call him Eros,” Ian says. “Not a model . That makes him sound like a product.”

“He is.”

“He’s more than that.” Ian holds my gaze with his sharp one. “You know that. Don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not—”

He leans toward me almost intimately, and my words fall away. “I want you to write this book because you’re special,” Ian says. “Your ideas are special. But you can’t meet Eros tonight.”

I’m disappointed, but not as much as I should be. I’m finding myself increasingly distracted by Ian’s closeness, the smell of him, how unexpectedly hot he is. “Why not?”

The corner of Ian’s mouth quirks. “I want you sober when you meet him. Tonight’s for fun. You want another drink?”

I can’t imagine why I need to be sober when I meet Eros. Probably so I can fully appreciate the engineering miracle that he is, though I’m sure I’d appreciate that at any state of inebriation. “Yes, please.”

Ian smiles. “Coming right up.”